Chapter 10
TEN
LANI
Old Pete catches me as I’m leaving the beach. I waited outside the cafe for over an hour past the time we agreed to meet and there was no sign of Koa at all. I even took a stroll along the shore in the hopes of seeing him, but nothing.
I feel foolish. Embarrassed. Annoyed.
And, stupidly, a little disappointed.
He didn’t have to make plans to hang out if he didn’t really want to. If he was just being polite, why actually set a day and time to meet? Why not just keep things vague?
I guess being stood up by Koa goes a little way towards assuaging my guilt for sleeping with Finn last night. So much for focusing on one guy. And for taking things slow.
It’s probably for the best. The last thing I need is a messy summer. Even if it was fun for a hot minute.
“Lani, sorry to put you on the spot again like this, but is there any chance you can work the lunch shift today?” He smiles winningly, and it’s almost impossible to say no to him. “We’re not opening tonight.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“There’s a big storm forecast to roll in. It might all blow over and be nothing but a storm in a teacup, but we always take the weather warnings seriously.”
Great. I hate storms. My grandmother had warned me they get the occasional storm here but I wasn’t expecting one to hit so soon. And the restaurant closing probably means not getting paid.
I take a deep breath, shoving my storm anxiety right down into the pit of my stomach, and smile at Pete.
“Of course I can take on the lunch shift instead of this evening. I definitely need the money, and like my grandma probably told you, I’m here to work.”
“Oh Lani, honey. You’ll still get paid for tonight’s shift, even if we’re closed. You’ll just miss out on the tips, I’m afraid. But you might be able to make some of that back over the lunch rush. We’re fully booked.”
“Thanks, Pete. I’ll see you later.”
Waving him goodbye, I check my phone for the time. It’s nearly eleven, meaning two things: I waited for Koa on that beach way longer than I should have, and I now have less than an hour before I have to start work, so I hurry back to my grandma’s to get ready.
Grumpy arsehole neighbour is watering his plants again. Shirtless. At this point, I’m starting to wonder if he even owns a shirt. It’s hard not to drool at the sight of him. What I wouldn’t give to be one of his Rhododendrons.
Not that I’d admit that out loud.
“You shouldn’t do that,” I call cheerily over the fence to him as I pass.
“Do what?”
“Water the plants.”
“If I don’t water them, they’ll die.” His voice drips with sarcasm.
“If you water them this late in the morning or too early in the evening, the sun will scorch them and they’ll die anyway. Besides, I heard there’s a storm coming, so they’ll get watered later anyway.”
My neighbour scoffs. “Oh let me guess, that old codger Pete told you that?”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“Old fool closes the restaurant if there’s so much as a light breeze.”
“You sound affronted by that. It’s not your restaurant, is it? Why do you care?”
“It’s bad for business. We have a loyal band of locals around here, but we rely heavily on the tourist crowd. Closing sets a bad precedent and will send them away to other beaches where they can get food. Then we all suffer.”
“You sound like you’re one of them.”
“One of what?”
“Someone with a business here.”
“Obviously. You don’t live on Butler land and not pull your weight,” he sneers. “Aside from your grandmother.”
“I thought this was her land,” I reply, my tone sweetly acerbic.
He shoots me an evil glare but says nothing, so I continue up to the house.
My grandmother’s wrap-around porch is her pride and joy.
She told me all about it from the first time we met, and sends me photos of the plants she nurtures in their pots regularly.
It was the only condition of me staying here this summer.
I have to look after her plants. It’s pretty straightforward – water them at the correct times of the day, and give some of the more tropical species special plant food once a week.
She made me a little guide and left it on the kitchen table, which is super cute.
They even have little name tags sticking out of the pots.
Not like the plastic information cards that you get when you buy plants in shops.
These are small wooden ones with pyro typography declaring funny little sayings like Staying Alive and Plants are my soil-mates, and their names.
Not their type or species or whatever they call them.
Their names. It’s freaking wild but I also love it.
We have conversations about how Betty and Barry Begonia are getting on, and whether or not Peter (Paradise) might finally be ready to bloom this year. (Spoiler alert: he isn’t.)
She also begged me to take care of them, by bringing them inside the house, in the event of a storm.
Eyeing them up now, I feel seriously overwhelmed by the enormity of the task.
If Old Pete is right and my neighbour is just being a dick, I have over a hundred plant pots to drag inside this evening, and some look to weigh more than I do.
Not only that, but I have to find space for them.
My grandmother isn’t exactly a minimalist. And it could all be for nothing.
Still, I don’t have time to worry about that right now. Work first, worry about Sneezy the Sneezewort later.
Within twenty minutes of arriving at the restaurant, the place is rammed.
What Old Pete failed to mention when he said we were fully booked is that it’s a triple sitting today – to make up for closing this evening. Covers at twelve, two, and four. Think of the money becomes my new mantra when I even have time to think.
Orders blur together. Plates out, plates back. Water jugs refilled. Smiles pasted on and peeled off again. My feet ache, my shoulders burn, and my head is still tender enough that I’m careful every time I turn too fast.
By the time the lunch rush hits its stride, I’m running on pure momentum and spite.
Then he walks in.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Familiar stride. Same stupid confidence, same infuriating energy that rolls off him like he owns every room he steps into.
My chest tightens.
Oh. You have got to be kidding me.
I don’t even think. I don’t give myself time to second-guess or soften it or swallow the words like I usually do. The frustration from this morning – the waiting, the embarrassment, the way I told myself it didn’t matter – boils straight over.
I march across the floor before my brain can catch up.
“So this is what you do?” I snap, stopping directly in front of him. “You make plans and then just…what? Pretend they never happened?”
His brows lift slowly, like he’s genuinely surprised to find me standing there.
“Excuse me?” he says.
“Oh don’t do that,” I fire back, arms crossing over my chest. “Don’t stand there acting confused. You didn’t even bother to show up. I waited over an hour.”
A couple of nearby diners glance over. I don’t care.
“I rearranged my morning,” I continue, heat rising into my cheeks now that I’ve started. “I sat there like an idiot wondering if you were hurt or just couldn’t be bothered. And now you walk in here like nothing happened? I thought something had happened to you.”
Silence stretches between us.
He doesn’t look apologetic.
If anything, he looks…amused.
“Are you even listening to me?” I demand.
That’s when the corner of his mouth twitches.
Not an apology. Not guilt. A smirk.
My stomach drops.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low and smooth in a way that makes my skin prickle for all the wrong reasons, and sounding anything but. “But if you’re looking for someone to take out all that pent-up frustration on, I’d be more than happy to help.”
The words hit like a slap.
Shock floods through me first. Then humiliation. Then a sharp, furious clarity.
Right. That tells me everything I need to know.
My jaw tightens. I take a step back, straightening, refusing to let him see how much that stung.
“Unbelievable,” I say coldly. “Do yourself a favour and don’t flatter yourself. You’re not nearly charming enough to pull that off.”
His eyes flicker – something unreadable passing through them – but I don’t wait to see more.
I turn on my heel and walk away, pulse hammering, spine rigid, pride bruised but intact. My hands shake as I grab a tray, but I lift my chin and get back to work like I didn’t just explode in the middle of the restaurant.
Behind me, I can feel his gaze lingering.
Good.
Let him choke on it.
If this summer is going to be messy, then at least I won’t be quiet about it.